The Hole Within

CHAPTER 12

My home life was not much different from when Mom worked three jobs. Mike worked from home, but god knew what he was doing. He was possessive of mom's time and was a very controlling man. I think he was jealous of any time she spent with us kids. Frequently, they would sequester themselves in their bedroom, leaving the kids (read: me) to govern themselves. Once again, it was up to me to keep them in control - keep them from fighting, yelling, playing too loudly, etc. Mike had three boys of his own. They were the same ages of my brother and sisters. When they visited, it was absolute hell, with six kids under the age of eleven!

Though I hated the taste of alcohol I had started drinking in earnest. It was much easier to get than the pills I coveted. I would coax friends to steal alcohol from their parents' bottles, taking some from each bottle resulting in a vile tasting brew. It did not bother me though, I drank for results. I filled an empty Rose Milk lotion bottle and carried it with me in my purse to school and between periods would go to the bathroom stall and drink deeply. Many days I went to class drunk but I still managed to maintain my grades.

I constantly longed for that numb feeling. When my cares drifted away like flotsam on an ocean wave. While most of my friends preferred beer, I did not. I downed a forty with barely concealed disgust and decided that the high it gave was not worth the torture of having to drink so much of the bitter liquid. My friends also liked to smoke a lot of pot. Not one to pass on a free high, I joined in. I did not really enjoy pot but I would have done anything to alter my consciousness. One day we got a fat joint from a dealer. It was supposed to be really good and feeling good sounded alright to me. We stood, passing the joint around, but my friends were mostly talking. Naturally, I took advantage of their preoccupation and smoked far more than my share. I lived by the rule that if a little was good then more was always better. The word moderation was not part of my inner vocabulary.

On the way back to class it begin to hit me. I felt stoned. Then I felt extremely removed for myself. My body tingled and began to go numb. It felt like a body shot of Novocain. I could not feel anything. Literally. I sat down at my desk I got out my notebook without knowing that is what I did. One moment I sat down, the next my notebook was on my desk. I reached for it, my hand a mile away from my body, and knocked it off to the floor. One minute it was on my desk and the next it was on the floor next to me. The next thing I knew I was viewing my classroom from the floor and sideways. I tried to get up and discovered I was still in a sitting position in my desk. Apparently, I had leaned over the closed side of my desk and the whole thing tipped over. Someone, or several someones, must have helped me up and righted my desk. I imagine the kids must have laughed, or maybe it was too shockingly embarrassing, I do not remember. I am not sure how I got through the rest of the afternoon. Suddenly, I was on the bus and feeling a persistent pressure on my shoulder. Someone was talking and trying to get my attention by tapping on me. She wanted to know if I was ok. Turning my head took years. I saw my friend's mouth move and days later I heard her voice. I had a hard time composing a response. The ride home took an eternity, slow motion as the bus stopped and let students off in ones or twos. When I finally arrived home, I went to bed determined to sleep it off.

The next day most of the high had worn off but I was left with the feeling of being totally outside my numb body. Getting ready for school was a chore. It was hard to dry my hair and put makeup on when I could not feel anything. I began praying fervently to Heavenly Father. I promised to not do drugs anymore if He would just make me normal again. For three days I prayed, for three days I remained a numb husk. Little by little the feeling came back in my body. I learned from my friend that the joint we smoked was laced with PCP. For the first of a million times, I swore off drugs. That lasted until my friends and I smoked again and the numbness returned. I prayed. I promised. I swore off drugs. Until I did it again. Finally, after the fifth or sixth time the numbness did not come. I still preferred drinking to getting high but beggars can't be choosers. I was never a partygoer. I preferred to stay home and drink alone. I was still dark and sullen, changing out AC/DC for the Dead Kennedys and Blondie. I wrote copiously, some in my journals that mostly verse in which death became the main theme.